


After the Storm

by darkwood



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Post-Case
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 15:32:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkwood/pseuds/darkwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Absolutely inspired by and made in homage to Kelouisa's <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/635237">Lazarus Machine.</a></p>
<p>(And don't worry, I'm keeping my guesses about her ending to myself.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kelouisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelouisa/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Lazarus Machine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/635237) by [Kelouisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelouisa/pseuds/Kelouisa). 



> I am vastly enthralled and in love with [Lazarus Machine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/635237) by Kelouisa. 
> 
> I don't normally read thrillers, I'm not much of a mystery girl myself, but I absolutely adore the story she's written thusfar. I appreciate the attention to detail she's put into the story, and all the research. It's truly inspiring to me to read.
> 
> I have my own theories about the whodunit of Lazarus Machine, but I won't be putting any of those into this story. It's just a bit of post-story speculation to show my unending adoration for a well-written story.

* * *

 

 

         After the conclusion of the case, it became apparent to John that Lestrade had other work that he completed without the help of Sherlock. Though it ought to have been obvious, that particular truth came as a strange thought after so many days of seeing the man nearly constantly in their rather horrific pursuit. Of course there were other crimes to be solved in a city the size of London. Being attached to Bow Street in the capacity that he was, Lestrade must see all manner of cases that needed sorting out in the eyes of the law, and thusly through the power of the magistrates.

 

         Once the worst of the case Sherlock had been engaged in was over, the gore cleaned up and the suspects tucked away properly, Lestrade shook John’s hand in the same friendly manner that he had the entirety of their acquaintance, and thanked him, stating that thanking Sherlock was unlikely to get him more than a snort in response.

 

         It had made John laugh, only more so when Sherlock snorted at overhearing the conversation between the two of them.

 

         “Shall we be off, John?” Sherlock had asked, tone just different enough that John noticed the change in it.

 

         John had yet to attribute exactly what the occasional tone to Sherlock’s voice might be, but he noticed that Sherlock only used that particular tone in conjunction with him. Sherlock’s tone never changed in regards to anyone else unless Sherlock was on a streak of deduction or in a particularly volatile mood. Puzzling out that change of tone was one of the many things about his husband that John had set aside in deference to the case. The work they were doing was important, and things were improving between them as they grew accustomed to one another. There would be time to figure out the particulars, John had been telling himself firmly, later.

 

         “Of course,” John said, smiling up at his husband. “If you’ll excuse me, Lestrade.” And then he took Sherlock’s waiting elbow, pleased for all sorts of reasons, not the least of which was the rather late hour and for most of the day there had been no time to stop for any sort of nourishment beyond the cup of tea Lestrade had sent for hours ago.

 

         “Get some rest, John. Sherlock,” Lestrade said, nodding to the taller man.

 

         “Yes, yes,” Sherlock said, sighing as though he could barely stand that formality, and then he lead the way out of the Bow Street office and into a waiting hack.

 

         Settling down inside, John stretched his leg out at an angle, trying to ease the muscles to prevent cramping, only to find a long-fingered hand curl around his knee and press into the muscles there, wordlessly.

 

         It was day, or rather evening fifteen of being a married man, for both of them. Not everything was solved or sorted between them, of that both were certain. John knew as much without having to hear it spoken. Sherlock seemed to relax when they were out of sight from others, and little gestures like the current one were a – John did not think that reward was the proper word for them. The casual gesture was not quite affection as one would expect from a normal person, but Sherlock was hardly a normal person. John did not think he should like to be married to a normal person, after all. Rather, the gesture felt as though it reinforced something.

 

         John was at a loss as to what it was that was being reinforced, but he enjoyed the connection. He had not the strength of mind to puzzle that out further.

 

         In the London that passed by outside the hack, the season was turning into one that would send many gentlemen to the country for sport, and the notion of it surprised John by turning his stomach. Thinking of the country inevitably made him think of Essex, and Harry. He could only imagine what had gone on in his absence. For one moment he felt the old, dutiful pull of the estate and those on it. He wondered about the people he knew, and how his brother had managed after the Viscount’s dashing rescue.

 

         As quickly as it came, the moment passed. The thoughts felt alien to him, as though they belonged to some other John Watson.

 

         John knew quite certainly that he had done the best he could for all of them. His reward (and, at times, his trial) was the dashing, mad husband he had taken. The husband that John could not quite see engaging in sport like another member of the _ton_. And John took comfort that there were enough things left to figure out to be certain of them being ensconced in London for quite some time. Sherlock’s game was in criminals and mysteries.

 

         Or at least those were John’s thoughts when he was inclined to exercise his mind along the avenue of thought. Sherlock’s fingers lingered, deftly helping to soothe the stiffness in his leg, and John’s mind settled on the pleasantness of that feeling. The hum of exhaustion grew louder in his ears.

 

         He woke as they stopped on Baker street, to the feeling of Sherlock rising from the carriage. As John climbed down, he was surprised at a lack of pain from his leg, though he still felt stiff and somewhat lethargic from the long hours. Tonight was the first night truly back at Baker Street in two or… possibly three days. Previous trips had not been in any sort of timeframe appropriate to more than tea and a few bites of what had appeared to be a hearty meal. There was something distinctly unrestful about sleeping in the morgue.

 

         Matthews held the door as the two of them entered, and Sherlock’s eyes flicked towards the door of his laboratory. John could almost see the thoughts churning in his husband’s handsome head. Sherlock had been putting off setting up his laboratory since before John had joined him in 221, and now that the case was done, he was buzzing in anticipation.

 

         “Have Mrs. Hudson send up supper, Matthews,” John said as he handed off his coat.

 

         “Of course, sir,” Matthews replied.

 

         Sherlock stripped out of his coat, still full of energy that John found he couldn’t match. His eyes drifted again in the direction of the laboratory, and he fell silent.

 

         “I’ll head up, then,” John said, stepping over to touch Sherlock’s arm gently.

 

         The tall man started, almost as if he’d been shocked. “What?”

 

         “Why don’t you go set up your lab, then?” John asked, feeling a smile tug at the corners of his lips. “You’re lusting after it.”

 

         “Nonsense,” Sherlock huffed. “I am doing no such thing.”

 

         John didn’t deign that remark with a response, turning for the stairs. He didn’t hear Sherlock’s footsteps either in the direction of the lab or following behind him, but he could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him as he ascended. All John wanted, in that moment, was their warm bed and Sherlock’s arms, barred that he would like the warmth of the sitting room and a full stomach. He was quite ready to sleep off the last few grueling days of the case.

 

         Once he’d reached the landing, Sherlock asked, “Does it feel better?”

 

         Looking down at his husband, John was confused a moment.

 

         “You appear to be moving more fluidly,” Sherlock said, a touch defensively. “I was only inquiring-”

 

         Oh. His leg.

 

         “It has been improving,” John assured Sherlock, offering a smile. “With you on the case, of course it is.”

 

         Whenever John praised Sherlock, a curious expression crossed the man’s face. John had to wonder if anyone had ever praised him quite so openly before. A part of him was sad if no one had, another part pleased at the reaction he garnered from his husband.

 

         “I’ll join you,” Sherlock announced, taking the stairs in the same flyaway manner he threw himself into most things, two at a time and rushing.

 

         John led the way into the sitting room, but Sherlock passed him, moving to scoop several books from the couch. The sitting room had been an unfortunate victim of the case, towards the end. A victim that John had not been entirely prepared to lose. Sherlock’s thoughts had scattered across the surfaces there.

 

         Now Sherlock swept the couch clean almost before John could cross to it. Sherlock was at the shelves with the armload of books, putting things away properly. “Once the laboratory is set up, there shouldn’t be a need to make this room uncomfortable,” Sherlock said, back to John.

 

         “It’s not a problem,” John said, settling in the clean chair near the fire. If he looked over, and he did, he could see Sherlock’s profile. He was concentrating on the books, perhaps a bit too hard.

 

         John wondered if Sherlock had even noticed the mess before.

 

         “Sherlock,” he said.

 

         “Just let me get this put away,” Sherlock said.

 

         Something was wrong with the way Sherlock said those words. Most times he did not bother to narrate his activity, assuming it to be most obvious, but this time he had. That was different enough that even John noticed it. John frowned for a moment, trying to recall. There had been quite a tussel several hours ago, and he knew that he’d taken a knock to the skull during it. Nothing serious, but when coupled with the exhaustion he was feeling it was more than enough to make memories a bit fuzzy.

 

         Of course.

 

         The lack of a proper place to settle anything had been enough to garner an outburst from John, though how much that outburst had to do with the loss of the sitting room and how much it had to do with the nature of the parties in the case had gone unspoken.

 

         Looking at the room now, it was obvious that Sherlock had made an exception to the scatter of his thoughts and research materials. There was one chair that had been kept clean. Looking at the room now, John was aware that it had been kept thusly entirely for John’s usage. John had not seen Sherlock sit in the chair since the mess had begun across the rest of the room, even when tea was brought up for them. Sherlock stood before the fire, or he paced the windows in his agitation. As he realized all this, John reflected poorly on his little outburst.

 

         Though _now_ John could see the hole in the mess set aside specifically for him, they had strongly disagreed about the state of the sitting room – when was that? Could it have only been the day before?

 

         Sighing, John pushed up to his feet, leaving his cane against the side of the chair as he shuffled over to where his husband was – unbelievably, as it was _Sherlock_ – fretting over the scattered remains of a rather brilliant series of deductions that had culminated in closing a very tricky case. No one else in the world could have solved what Sherlock had just solved in any feasible amount of time. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and leaned his head against Sherlock’s back. It was something he had longed to do before, but hadn’t the confidence to complete. Now he could only wish it was an act done in somewhat friendlier circumstances.

 

         For a moment, Sherlock stiffened, and then he put the last book down on the edge of the shelf. “John-”

 

         “I don’t care about the state of the sitting room,” John assured him, squeezing his waist and pressing his cheek against Sherlock’s spine.

 

         “But you—earlier—”

 

         “Earlier,” John clarified softly, “we had neither of us slept, and I had not eaten.”

 

         “I really don’t need that much sleep,” Sherlock protested.

 

         “A fact I am observing,” John said, turning his nose into the fine fabric of his husband’s jacket. He breathed in deeply, trying to puzzle out what Sherlock smelled like beyond himself.

 

         John waited for some comment about how John insisted upon silly things, recalling a spike in Sherlock’s temper when he’d insisted that the body was nothing to compare to the mind, and that _his_ mind was far stronger than-

 

         It had not taken much in the way of deductive power for Sherlock to see that his ranting words had affected John. Likely, he had not understood what affect it had been, but he had seen it. He had not, then, finished his sentence. John had not dignified it with a response, and had paused only long enough to kiss Sherlock’s stunned cheek before heading to bed.

 

         This time, Sherlock seemed to have no comment to offer.

 

         The door opened and Matthews came in, bearing a tray. If he thought anything of his two masters’ position, he did not voice it. John straightened enough to nod when Matthews hesitated at the book laden table, and the man made short work of tidying a space for the dinner tray. He started to set out the plates, but John shook his head. “That will be fine, thank you.”

 

         And then Matthews was gone as quickly as he’d come in, pausing only to stoke the fire before heading back out without comment.

 

         “Shall we eat, then?” Sherlock’s gentle words were almost a shock. Two hands covered John’s where they had settled around his waist.

 

         Though sporadically affectionate and sometimes passionate, John’s brilliant husband was stronger against the pull of desire than John himself had proven to be. And he was making a very obvious effort at being considerate. Of course Sherlock would do nothing like ignore what John had asked for just to be held in front of the bookcase. John still wondered how this would all work, with only the one of them tending towards affection. He chastised himself for the morose thought. They had not been married a month, and they got on quite well together, didn’t they? That could be enough while they figured out the rest.

 

         No.

 

         It _would_ be enough. John would allow time for it to grow into more.

 

         John gave Sherlock a squeeze and released him, turning towards the table to limp his way over. The turn became a lurch halfway around, exhaustion finally taking its toll over his legs, and John’s knee buckled. He pushed his hands out, closing his eyes in anticipation of the impact with the rug, but warm arms caught him instead. John was pulled back against Sherlock’s chest.

 

         “Knackered,” John let out in a huff. Sherlock moved closer to him, standing him upright, but kept his hold on him. “I’ll be alright.”

 

         “Come to bed.”

 

         Had there been any strength in John’s legs, it would have left with that low phrase whispered against his ear. Sherlock’s arms tightened around him, and John nodded. All his usual indignation at being assisted in moving fled him as Sherlock helped him maneuver into the bedroom that they now shared. John was certain the sensation of annoyance would return without the exhaustion to keep it at bay, but for those moments the displeasure was supplanted by the tender proximity of his husband.

 

         Sherlock left him at the bedside, moving to collect their nightshirts. John sank down heavily and made lazy work of undressing himself. He managed to rid himself of jacket and waistcoat, and his neck cloth came away before Sherlock returned in only his shirt sleeves. For just a moment as he looked up at Sherlock, John thought that perhaps his husband really was proof against sleep. Then Sherlock bent to help him, and as his face came into closer proximity John could see the bags under his eyes.

 

         With a gentle hand, John stopped Sherlock from undressing him. “I can still do for myself.”

 

         “You are exhausted,” Sherlock replied in a tone that was far too soft for his usual chiding. But Sherlock removed his helpful hands and did not impede John from finish undressing on his own.

 

         “Chasing after you can have that affect on me,” John allowed, pulling his shirt off before rising to work his way free of his trousers. Sherlock remained standing straight, looking a little chastised when John glanced up at him. “But there’s nowhere I’d rather be than at your side,” John said, because it was true and also because he thought it would lift Sherlock’s spirits before he fell into a sulk. Since marrying Sherlock – since _meeting_ Sherlock, he had experienced no greater pleasure than being in his husband’s at-times alarming presence.

 

         It was not bright in their bedroom, but as John straightened he could see a flush of color on Sherlock’s high cheekbones. When he caught John looking, Sherlock turned and began to undress himself.

 

         _You are entirely too tired for gawking,_ John told himself sternly as he pulled the nightshirt over his head. The admonishment did nothing to prevent him from watching Sherlock finish undressing. It did not even begin to temper the admiration in his eyes as he did so.

 

         Sherlock noticed, of course. He could care nothing for the pleasantries of human interaction, but Sherlock could read reactions – especially the baser ones – adeptly. At some point Sherlock seemed to have catalogued things about John, and was able to call up a comparison readily at any sign of change. So when Sherlock’s turn was a touch slower than his usual motion, John figured it must be on purpose.

 

         Exhaustion was not to be put off for desire that night, though. John could barely stifle the yawn that overtook him. A quick little smile fixed itself on Sherlock’s lips, and he moved up to turn down the bed. John rose, just enough energy left within himself to shuffle stiffly to the head of the bed and between the covers before blackness swallowed his vision. His last sensation was of being moved, pulled to something warm and wonderful, and then sleep claimed him thoroughly.


End file.
